Gilbert's Road
by Ideas265
Summary: It's not the hospital bed or the treatment, but the people we meet that make us stronger.


**I don't own Hetalia, or Winter, or Let it Go**

* * *

Eyes full of shine and goofiness; I uttered the sweet, savory word over my tongue. "_Shoe-gar_," I said. "_Shoe-gar_…" Drawling the word like a donkey, I flailed my arms around to get what I craved most.

"No, Gil," teased Bonnefoy, restraining my arms carefully yet sternly. "You _can't_ have any _sugar_. Kirkland would have my head if I gave you some."

"_Kirk-end_," I tried to pronounce, clumsily reaching for Bonnefoy's white sleeve, tugging it. "_Kirk-end_ a jerky, _Bonnie_," I told him, pulling the covers above my head like a toddler waiting for Santa Claus. Bonnefoy laughed, ruffling my hair with his hand. Writing something onto his clipboard, Bonnefoy squeaked,

"Out of all of my patients, you're my favorite!"

"Don't start playing favorites again," complained Beilschmidt, walking into the room, glancing down at Bonnefoy's clipboard. "How is he improving, Francis?"

"_Well_," Bonnefoy started, throwing his French accent on high, "His speech is improving, but he's still having trouble with grammar, pronouncing names, and he still pauses when he talks. But, his motor skills are getting better, and he knows a new word, 'sugar'!"

Beilschmidt shook his head, sighing. "It's time for you to leave, Francis. It's now my shift."

"Right, I forgot~" Sliding off the stool, Bonnefoy sent me an air-kiss before leaving me alone with Beilschmidt. I didn't like that. Tugging the cover to my nose, I began to chirp the few words I've learned from Bonnefoy.

"_Scar, yo scar_!" I pointed at him, eyes scrunched up like Beilschmidt's when he's frustrated.

"No, I'm not scary, Gilbert," Beilschmidt said sternly, pulling my blanket down. Pulling a clipboard from his white coat—_did his jacket have big pockets?—_he asked, "What do you remember?"

"_Bonnie _and_ Bell-mints _and_ shoe-gar_," I recited, looking up at the ceiling light, head tilted, happy that I managed to remember something for Beilschmidt.

Beilschmidt wrote something down. "Do you remember anything about yesterday?"

I nodded again. "_Bonnie _and_ Bell-mints _and_ Kirk-end_," I recited, poking Beilschmidt's coat.

He wrote something down again. "Do you remember that Kirkland and I wheeled you to see the other patients here?" I nodded again, big smile radiating from my face.

"Me sees _otter_ _wheelies_ and docs and _Roderich_!" I squeaked. Beilschmidt's eyes widened.

"Can you repeat that?"

"_Rood-itch_," I stumbled, smiling, nearly falling off the bed. Beilschmidt caught me and pulled me back up.

"No, I heard you say 'Roderich'," he argued. I shook my head. "_Rood-itch_," I said again.

Beilschmidt sighed before putting his clipboard way. "You have a long way to go, Gilbert. At least the accident didn't hinder your memory that badly," he added, looking back at his clipboard, checking his notes. "Though, you only remember recent events. You don't remember what happened before the accident, do you?" When I didn't say anything, Beilschmidt sighed again. "You don't even remember your own _bruder_."

My ears twitched at the last word he said. It didn't sound the same as the others that came from his mouth, but I understood what it meant.

"_Bell-mints_, why…you and…_Bonnie…_care?" I didn't know either of them personally, but they were also so nice to me—Beilschmidt _at least_ tried a bit.

"You're his friend and you're my brother, that's why."

"No, me…not same…you," I told him, struggling with my vocab. "Me…_different_."

Tears flooded into Beilschmidt's eyes at my words, a first in my recent book. He bent down and hugged me tightly. His voice was shaky, and seeing him fallen this low took my breath away—literally and metaphorically (he was suffocating me!)

"You'll remember again, Gil. Just try to think back!" he sniffled.

Confused and struggling, I patted his back, not knowing what was going on. "_Ich werde versuchen_," I coughed, not knowing what I just said or the langue that it was in.

* * *

"One day, I'm going to teach you to speak properly," Roderich told me, using his crutches to walk to the window, breathing in the fresh, spring air. I followed closely behind via wheelchair and did the same thing, sneezing almost immediately from the itchy pollen. "Your grammar is so pathetic, that it's a wonder anyone could understand you."

"Me speak…English," I started. "Me likes…sleep and play…_Bonnie_ and _Bell-mint foony_…me likes." Roderich shook his head, sighing. Adjusting his glasses, Roderich told me,

"See, that's what I mean, Gilbert. One day, I'm going to teach you formal English, and how to read and write too. It's just doing it all again," he added, as Kirkland popped in, drinking tea from his mug in one hand and an English muffin in the other hand.

"Are you two ladies ready for physical therapy?" he joked, wheeling me into Bill's hall, Roderich limping closely behind. Opening the door, Bill's assistant, Kiku, gently ushered me in, leading Roderich to a different room down the hall.

"Where he go?" I asked, confused. "Me thoughts he do _there-pie_ too."

"He is," Bill said, taking the clipboard from Kirkland, examining it. Putting his glasses on—_I liked those glasses_—he went up to me, stretching his hand out for me to shake. "But if you want to go to his room, you have to learn the basics."

Biting my teeth, I stretched my hand out to shake Bill's, but my fingers wouldn't open up. My hand began to tremble, so I brought it back to me, worried that I did something wrong.

"Okay, let's try the opening hand exercise instead," he told me, smiling that grin I hated.

"No!" I yelled, causing Kiku to jump. "Me has to learn. No more…um…_back track_!"

"Gilbert-san, I think you should listen to Bill," Kiku whispered, hiding behind the room's medical bed—sort of like he thought that I was going to make him spend the month there. "If you want to progress, we have to do these mini-exercises to get your body used to the acts before trying something harder."

I took a big breath before doing the exercise, not wanting Bill to snap at me. My fingers didn't want to cooperate that session. Even though I was still stuck on the same spot, Bill never got angry or raised his voice at me though I yelled back at him. Maybe that's why it was so hard for me to get my fingers to work. I was too mad at them…

"Don't worry, Gil," Bonnefoy cooed, feeding me that evening. "You're probably not getting enough rest. Our body functions its best when we're healthy and recharged. Have you been skipping on your hours?"

I shook my head, but that was a lie.

Bonnefoy frowned as he mixed up my soup, blowing it gently.

"Gil, lying is very bad," he lectured. "If you lie to me, to Kirkland, or to anyone else here, how are we going to help you? So I'll ask again: Have you been skipping on your hours?"

I nodded. I didn't want to stay like this forever; I wanted others to help me so I could be like everyone else. "Sleep no come," I told him. "Sleep never comes."

That night before bedtime, Bonnefoy fed me some warm milk, saying, "If this works on babies, I bet it can work on a Gilbert." I half-shrugged as I drank the creamy liquid. Rubbing my back and giving me a bedtime hug, Bonnefoy left, closing the door softly. I fidgeted around in bed, looking for sleep.

Well, it actually found me instead. And that night, I saw something—a dream Bonnefoy would call it.

I was in my hospital room, and I heard music from downstairs. I looked around for my wheelchair, but it wasn't around. Kicking my bed covers off, I stumbled onto my feet—uncomfortable from the pressure my feet were putting up with. Using my IV thing for balance, I made my way down the hallway to where the music was coming from.

The hallway was clean: No chairs, no nurses, no Bonnefoy or Beilschmidt, and definitely no Kirkland. The windows were polished and there were no stars or moon or anything: Just black. But the music never stopped.

I remembered hearing it before, somewhere. But never at the hospital, though. I looked through every room that I could find and never found the music. But it was there…

It was waiting for me.

"How was your sleep?" Bonnefoy asked me, spooning me mushy porridge that morning.

"Nice," I coughed, gagging.

"I guess your speech is improving, right?" he asked me, winking. I shrugged before looking down at my uncooperative hands.

Bonnefoy turned the TV on for me to watch after breakfast. Flipping through the channels, my ears were captivated from the music on channel 49. There, I found the song that weaved into my dreams.

"What song called?" I asked him.

"Chopin," he smiled. "Chopin Opus 9 no 2: Who knew you had a taste for classical?"

I didn't say anything, not understand what he meant. How could you taste music?

* * *

"I was quite famous in the music world," Roderich told me as we adventured out into the hospital's park—a beautiful blossom dusted area with a fountain and cemetery. "Before I got stuck here, I would play concerts with my piano every week." He paused to stare at some song birds in the trees above.

"Don't you…get tired?" I asked, trying not to pause when I spoke, (Kirkland finally came around to teach me how to speak properly, much to Roderich's delight). Roderich shook his head, moving his hands softly in the air as if he was playing a song again.

"When you love doing something, you never get tired of it, Gil."

"So, what does…a _plano_…look like?"

"_Piano_," Roderich corrected. "One day, when you get out of here, you'll see it, I'm sure. It's not that hard to find, actually. You'll know when you see it."

"Can anyone play on it?" I asked eagerly, going in circles in my wheelchair, feeling dizzy from the movement.

"Yes, but it's very hard. It takes years to fully master the piano," he explained.

"I don't want to be a master. I just want to…play one song, a simple one." A small smiled curved over Roderich's lips at the thought.

"Yes, I can help you with that. I can teach you how to read the notes and play the song too."

I clapped my hands together. "Is that a promise?" Roderich rolled his eyes, nodding.

"Yay~" I squeaked.

Later that day, Bonnefoy wheeled me to Bill's for physical therapy. It'd been a week since I learned how to take my first steps. As Kiku helped me walk across the room during the session, Bill cheered me on and congratulated me when I did the last few steps on my own.

"Once you can walk on your own, you'll move to another room to do advance physical therapy," he told me, leading me back to my wheelchair. "And, you won't have to be on the wheelchair anymore. You'll use crutches instead."

"Like Rod?" I asked—Rod is my nickname for Roderich. He nodded before giving me some background info for advance physical therapy. It was a lot more than just using your hands and walking, I'll say that.

"Don't worry, you have three weeks left here before moving on, so I'll prepare you for then as best as I can," Bill laughed, patting my back. Then his face fell when he saw me crying. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"T-Thank you for never g-giving up on m-me," I sobbed, hugging him around the middle.

I was going to miss Bill…

* * *

Grabbing my crutches after the fourth session of advance physical therapy, I slowly limped out and back to my room. My therapist was a lot harsher than Bill, but his assistant was as kind and respectful as Kiku, maybe a bit more _loosened up_ than the Japanese man.

I really miss those two…

Going past the visitors' lobby, I saw Roderich in a suit and tie, his crutches gone. Seeing me, Bonnefoy opened the door to let me in.

"What's going on?" I asked, glancing at the balloons and cake on the table. "Is it his birthday?" Bonnefoy shook his head, eyes shined with tears.

"He's leaving, Gil. He's all better now." I titled my head, lip quivering.

"Is he going to come back?" Bonnefoy broke it down for me.

"Gil, when someone gets better here, they don't come back until they feel bad again," he explained. "Judging by Roderich's improvement, he's not coming back for quite a while."

"When?"

"He'll probably be back when he's a lot older than now. Like…you remember Berwald? Yeah, when he's like Berwald. By then, he needs people to help him with everything, like eating and walking." I felt my crutches leave my arms. The crash brought Roderich's attention from his guests to me.

"Hi, Gilbert," he said, curtly. Then he stretched his hand out for me to shake. "Well, I guess this is goodbye, my dear friend."

I didn't bother to answer, shake his hand, or even look at him: My eyes fixed on the floor. Roderich bent down and brought me my crutches, thrusting them into my hand.

"Take care of yourself and good luck," he told me, patting my shoulder.

"Take care of myself?" I choked.

"Yeah, you know, go on with your life," he explained.

"Um-Gil's really tired right now, and he needs his afternoon nap," Bonnefoy blurted, glancing at me worriedly through his spectacles. "But, you can say your goodbyes before you leave, Roderich." He nodded and went to cut a slice of cake.

"When you wake up later, you can have some," he told me, giving the slice to Bonnefoy, ruffling my hair. "Hopefully, we'll see each other again."

"Yes, that's great. Come along Gilbert, nap time~" When I didn't move, Bonnefoy pulled my sleeve to motivate me. Feeling my throat tightened, I walked. Turning my head back before leaving, I whispered,

"_Good luck_." That was all I could say before tears spilled. Biting my lip, I carried on with my walk. But, it hurt so much.

He was my friend.  
He promised that he'll stay until I got better.  
He promised he'd teach me a song on the piano.  
He told me he was going to teach me how to read and write…  
_But it was all a lie_…

"Gilbert, do you want to talk?" Bonnefoy asked, helping me onto the hospital bed. I shook my head, crying into my hands. "You know, he was ready to leave three weeks ago, but he stayed a bit longer just to encourage you along the way." Bonnefoy sat next to me, stroking my hair.

"I hate him," I muttered, hugging Bonnefoy. "He's like my brother, Ludwig. You go away when you're not needed anymore."

"Well, he left because you started remembering things," Bonnefoy whispered.

"But I still needed him…"

"Shush, get some sleep and you can enjoy your cake later. Patients that've been here longer than you have experienced worse. Some never saw their families and friends again when they got left here. Don't think you're the one suffering most here."

* * *

"So, you have Polio?" I asked Lucas, the Norwegian.

"Yes, I do," he replied, monotone. His purple eyes glanced down at my crutches. "It's funny that you asked that question now. After all we've been through too."

"Just trying to be polite," I said, poking Lucas' iron lung machine.

"The past four weeks have been fun…" he managed, weakly. I nodded—four weeks since Roderich's leave, and four weeks since the talk with Bonnefoy. Eyes drooping, he struggled, "Bring me…my Good…Book, Gilbert." Pulling the leathered-bound book from the drawer, I frowned.

"I don't get why you read it?" I asked him, opening the "dictionary" to the page Lucas was on last time. "It's just words. When you die, the words won't be with you anymore. They won't mean anything."

"What have you been smoking?" Lucas mumbled—coughing dryly at his joke. "It's exactly why I read it before me time is up. It's my guide, my map to the next place. Something to prepare and clean me up before the big trip," he explained, signaling me to turn the page.

"Why do you have to read it?"

"It comforts me during my days left here," he wheezed. I narrowed my eyes a bit before loosening up. Lucas wasn't an old person, he was quite young—probably mid-twenties, I'm guessing. His hair was dull, and he was skinny as a pole. He barely ever moved, and if he did, it was just small jerks with his fingers. Clutched tightly in one of his hands, was his cross—something he always wore when he was little, so he told me. If he didn't have Polio—"_It's probably the saddest condition I've dealt with through a patient"_, Bonnefoy told me once—he looked like he would've easily made it to his seventies or even eighties.

"I hope you never die, Lucas. You're a great friend!"

"You're a good friend too, Gil, but I can't stay here forever. Eventually…I'll have to go on. Then…I'll meet my brother again."

"Did he die from Polio?" I asked, realizing how rude it sounded. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright, death doesn't mean anything to me at this point," he mumbled, signaling me to close the book. Today, he only read a page and a half—a lot shorter than the previous days. "He died from cancer—died quite young, actually. I stayed with him 'til the very end."

"What were his final words?"

"'_Big Brother_,'" Lucas whispered, closing his eyes to rest. And I then knew that I had to leave.

"Good luck, Lucas. I hope you get better," I told him, putting the "dictionary" away. He groaned before wincing as the sudden jerk of his fingers.

That night, I prayed to the Guy Upstairs to help Lucas out. As I prayed, I thought about his brother and Ludwig and Roderich. I wondered if they ever prayed for me. I wondered if Lucas' brother ever prayed for him. I wondered if his brother could send the message to the Guy Upstairs in turbo speed.

_Later that morning…Lucas died.  
A white blanket was over him and his iron lung machine was gone.  
Bonnefoy and Lucas' doctor, Wang, said his lungs gave out.  
When I came to visit him, a flower in my hand,  
I saw the Good Book resting on top of him,  
his hands placed on top.  
His cross served as a bookmark for the book, and when I turned it open,  
I saw a message that was delivered specifically to me._

* * *

Getting off the bed, I looked around for my crutches, but they were nowhere in sight. I was tempted to call Bonnefoy, but I was curious to see if my legs could withstand my weight. Taking deep breaths, I stumbled onto my feet, using the drawer as support.

Flexing my legs like Doctor Vargas, my advance therapist, told me, I started my few steps forward. Soon, those few steps evolved into a full speed-walk down the hallway. My legs weren't jelly, but stiff on the floor. My muscles groaned at my weight, but kept up with my pace.

Looking around me, I saw the other patients and doctors stop and stared at me, wide grins growing on their faces. I saw my brother and Bonnefoy, and they nearly tackled me when they saw that I was without the crutches. Vargas congratulated me and his assistant, Antonio, treated me to doubles of everything for breakfast.

For the first time in a week, I was all in grins.

* * *

"You have a visitor today," Ludwig told me, leading me to the private visitors' room. Opening the door, he gestured me in, and there, I saw Roderich—the traitor/friend from before. He was wearing the same suit the day he left and a polite smile was plastered on his face—too fake for my taste.

"Gilbert, it's been a while," he told me when Ludwig left. "I read the papers you gave Francis. They were quite good."

"Bonnefoy gave them to you?" I asked, biting my lip. Roderich nodded.

"I know you had a shaky past few months after my leave," he started, twiddling his thumbs nervously.

"Oh, _now_ you're beginning to notice," I scoffed, folding my arms as I paced around him.

"I've come back to give you an apology," the Austrian began.

I rolled my eyes. "So, you waited for four months just to say 'sorry'?" The blood in my veins began to heat.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I thought you would've been happy," he mumbled, eyes lowered.

"_Happy?_" I gasped. "You could've told me the truth from the start. Why didn't you tell me that you were okay? Then…you just left, not noticing how I felt that day," I snapped, jabbing Roderich's arm with each word.

"Can't you forgive me?"

_Let's just say…the rest wasn't pretty._

Fussing in my ear as he bandaged my red fists, Bonnefoy muttered,

"Why'd you have to beat him up, Gil? He was just trying to apologize!"

"He's a jerk," I sniffed, wiping my bleeding nose. That pianist could sure land a punch.

"Your hurt his feelings, Gilbert," Bonnefoy lectured.

"Didn't you tell me before to always speak the truth?"

Bonnefoy snapped in French, furious with himself.

* * *

After gulping down breakfast, Bonnefoy gave me clothes, a trench coat, and a scarf. Ruffling my hair one last time, he led me to the visitors' room where patients and doctors waited to congratulate me on my recovery and freedom.

"If you see Roderich again, try not to beat him up," Ludwig joked, wagging a disapproving finger as he hugged me—a hug he always gave me when we were children, well, that's what he _told _me.

"And, try not to get into any trouble again. We don't want a repeat of this past year," cautioned Vargas, handing me a cup of tomato juice, slapping my arm playfully.

"Take care," some of the patients mouthed, giving me a salute. Brimming with tears, I saluted back as I was led out of the hospital by Wang and Bonnefoy. Both doctors gave me a final hug before letting me go.

"I hate happy endings, aru!" Wang sniffled, Bonnefoy patting his back.

As soon as I was a few feet on my own, it began to snow. Great flakes of it rained down on me as I jogged to the hospital's cemetery. After all, I had a few more people to say goodbye to—Lucas and, recently, Berwald. When I founded their crosses near the front, I got on my knees and pressed my hands together, wishing them luck wherever they were.

"I promise I'll come by to visit soon," I told their crosses, taking my scarf and wrapping it around the crosses. They both didn't like the cold when they were alive, and, I bet, especially when they were dead. Pressing my hands onto the snow in front of them, I saluted them goodbye before, finally, venturing out to the world I once knew. The world before that car accident…

* * *

_A year later…_

"That'll be twenty dollars, Sir," the ticket man said. Rummaging through my pockets, I handed him the bills and grabbed my ticket. Making my way through the concert hall—getting lost and ending up outside again in the process—I found the room where they were going to do a mash-up of two songs—some classic mixed with modern.

Peeling my gray hoodie off, I pounded my way through streams of people—more like stampede—to get to the front row, or as close as I could get. I smiled, thinking of what the others would say in this situation.

"_Hmph, no wonder so many people get called in with broken limbs_," Vargas would say, and Antonio would probably nod in agreement. Ludwig would probably mutter "_Excuse me_" the whole way, but would still be pushed back by the crowd. Lucas and Berwald would be grumbling and complaining about the "youth of this generation" as they whacked people aside with their walking sticks. Bonnefoy would be laughing and making sure I didn't trip or get run-over by someone while Wang battled his way through the crowd, yelling, "_Aru, make space for the Asian at least_!"

Finding a comfortable seat, I watched as the lights dimmed and the concert hall got silent. The stage lights shined as the conductor got on, introducing tonight's mash-up: Winter by Vivaldi and Let It Go from, the recent movie, Frozen.

The crowd clapped as the curtains were raised. The orchestra and band filed in, getting their instruments ready. A grand piano sat center stage, spotlight following the person who was going to play on it. When they turned to face the crowd, I felt my jaw fall off. It was Roderich!

Smiling, he took his spot and cracked his fingers. With a quick blink from the conductor, Roderich began the intro. Slowly, the other instruments joined in—with the help of the conductor, reaching full force at the climax.

With a bang of an ending, the crowd exploded into claps and whistles. Each player and the conductor bowed low before retreating to backstage. The concert hall lights turned back on, and people were shuffling out, talking about the amazing performance.

I turned and looked around; making sure no one was left. Quietly, I made my way up to the grand piano. Glancing over my shoulder, I pressed a key before jumping off stage. Looking at my finger and then hands, a smile curved onto my lips.

Making my way to the backstage, I wanted to congratulate him.

I wanted to tell him,  
"I forgive you."


End file.
